The Ghost and Mr Kirk
by SpiritBearr
Summary: The Enterprise is haunted. No. Really. It is.
1. Chapter 1

**Title: The Ghost and Mr. Kirk**

**Rating: K+ (?)**

**Warnings; Maybe some mild language. **

**Summary: The **_**Enterprise**_** is haunted. No. Really. It is. **

**A/N: Short fic, once again; not a one-shot, I imagine, but probably no more then four or five chapters. Again, intended to be a rather light-hearted fic, but, to the person who asked- Dependable will be next, which will be something a little less so. Again, you guys who review rock my socks, and those of you who repeatedly r&r my stuff; you flatter me. ^_^ Thanks so much, everyone. **

**The Ghost and Mr. Kirk**

The first time I become aware something is just _not quite right_ on my ship is when my shirts start to disappear.

_All_ of my shirts.

Of course, Bones feels it's all very funny-"They finally rebelled, did they?" He quips, sending a young ensign with a sprained wrist on her way and turning to face me with an impish grin.

"Haha, Bones." I growl. "I'm _serious, _something's not right."

"Jim, someone's probably playing a prank on you." He says, feeling something out a PADD and handing it over to a nurse. It's not an unreasonable assumption; not even the Captain is able to escape the curse of bored crewmembers during a slow week. (Let's face it; I don't scare anyone but the newest members of our crew, and even them not for long.) Pranks and jokes are also fairly common on the _Enterprise_, too.

Still, I can't shake the feeling that isn't my problem right now.

"Bones, no one would _hide_ my shirts." _Except maybe __**you**__-_

"Chekov would." He says, without missing a beat, "and if _Chekov_ does it, Sulu or Scotty would help him."

I snort. I've heard it said, when people think I can't hear, that Bones, Spock and I are 'The Big Three'-attached at the hip and impossible to keep down. But we're not the only three 'attached at the hip', and I've taken to thinking of Scott, Sulu and Chekov as 'The Three Musketeers'. Scott's fiercely protective of both of them, like an older brother- more so Chekov, of course. He's the youngest member of the bridge crew, and one of the youngest people on this _ship_, period. Scott seems to think of him as a kid brother.

But Bones has a point about Chekov, so when my shirts keep vanishing, I ask all three of them to come to my quarters the evening of the most recent attack. If I don't put an end to this soon, I'm going to be on the bridge in nothing more then black undershirts. (Until, heaven forbid, those start getting kidnapped.)

The three pile into my quarters near the end of the 'day'- we don't have 'day' and 'night', of course, we're in the middle of _space_. But we simulate it, and pretty well-so it would be about dusk on earth when they pile in like a trio of badly-behaved puppies.

But whatever they _have_ done- I'm sure I'll find out about it eventually-taking my shirts was not it. When I ask about it, I get strong confusion and denial from all three- the kind you can't fake.

So I let them go-and tell them that if whatever they _did_ do ends up affecting me somehow they'll all be on cleaning detail for a week and confined to quarters for far longer. I warn them that if it affects Mr. Spock or Doctor McCoy, they'll _wish_ they were on cleaning detail for a week and confined to quarters for far longer.

Bones is vicious when he's in the mood for retribution.

To my surprise, about a week later the shirts are returned, unharmed and unchanged. I consider that the three musketeers had simply lied, but that's….a pretty _illogical_ idea. They hadn't been faking their surprise and confusion- and with the exception of the Tribble Incident, they've never out-right lied to my face about something.

I ask the last few people on laundry detail (yes, everything is handled by computers, but those computers and machines must be told what to do), but they're as confused as Chekov, Scott, and Sulu were. They hadn't been aware of any problem, and there had been no glitches or errors…._anywhere._

"Like I said, I bet they finally just rebelled." Bones drawls, one evening, after dinner, in his quarters. "After all, they're the first causality to be suffered in a bad situation."

I glance up, resisting the very childish urge to stick my tongue out at him. "And what, came back?"

"Well, Jim, clearly your shirts are female, and couldn't resist the urge to cling to your smooth, brawny body again, at significant risk to themselves." He quips, and childish or not, I yank his chair out from under him with a foot.

It only gets worse, though, after the shirts are returned.

Once, a few months ago, we ended up in a situation where a race of people who had been genetically altered had tried to take over the ship. (Or, erm, steal me, actually, as what more-or-less narrowed down to breeding stock. Flattering on the one hand, entirely discomforting on the other.) My point is, they'd moved much faster then we could, so that we could not see or even hear hem; but their speech translated over to us as the humming of bugs; like a mosquito. And one of them had spent her time before they'd 'stolen' me giving me what she called 'invisible kisses'. She'd brush up close, and I'd hear and feel her for just a heartbeat before she'd dance away.

Apparently she'd been kissing me. Oddly charming, in a way, if the whole situation hadn't been so unpleasant.

What I begin to feel the next day, after the shirts reaper, is very similar to that. So much so that I am jittery and on edge for a week, until Spock informs me that no one else on the ship has heard or seen anything odd, and nothing else strange happens.

But the invisible kisses continue. In my quarters, in the halls, sickbay, the bridge, engineering, observation deck, _everywhere_ and anywhere. I'm so twitchy by the end of it that Bones hauls me into sickbay for a through mental and physical exam, with me snarling the entire time because I am _fine_, damn it, I'm not loosing my mind and I'm not stressed or sick or anything else, just _tormented_. Bones, of course, ignores me and puts me through my paces, anyway-and finds that I am perfectly healthy and whole. And _sane_, for goodness sakes. ("Well, as sane as you ever are," McCoy teases, and I tell him he really has no room to talk.)

Then, another week passes, and it stops.

McCoy suggests that we take shore leave; even Spock makes the suggestion that I'm overtired. I'm _not_. I didn't imagine anything that's happened, and Bones _saw_ the evidence of the missing shirts, at least.

But after the odd 'kisses' stop, I start-hearing it.

And I start wondering if maybe Spock and Bones aren't more right then I'm willing to admit.

It's faint, at first; so much so I'm not even sure I hear what I think I do. But later, in the rec room, playing chess with Spock and enjoying the relaxed, playful atmosphere of the men and women around me, I'm sure of it.

"_Jim?….._"

"What, Bones?" I ask, absently, before I realize that McCoy isn't even in the room and the voice was distinctly female. Spock is staring at me, eyebrows raised.

"Captain, are you alright?" He asks slowly, the way you might ask a lunatic if they were alright.

"Fine." I snap, maybe a little more harshly then I should. "Just play the game, please."

I loose.

The voice gets louder as time passes, and more confident, too; soon it's not asking my name, it's _stating_ it, as if calling me. It startles me awake at night, it has me responding before I realize I am, and it starts to laugh when that happens. A light, gentle giggle of delight.

"Jim Kirk," It coos at me, "James!" And it _will not shut up_. I tell Bones, who gives me something to help me sleep through it, at least- but the voice doesn't much care for that. I start waking up with blankets across the room and once, I woke up on the floor outside my own door with a very concerned Chekov shaking my shoulder and telling me that if I'm bleeding somewhere Doctor McCoy will probably not be happy. (The fact that he automatically assumed I was injured should probably concern me more then it actually _does_.)

It's when I see her that I finally come to my decision.

I am on the observation deck, because it's peaceful there and I can gather my thoughts. I like watching space go by. The stars are just as beautiful when you're among them as they are when laying on your back in the grass and staring up, wondering who and what lived up there and wanting nothing so much as to grab one; pluck it from the sky like a firefly just for a moment.

I can't touch the stars. But I've got the next best thing.

I'm watching the stars and blackness go by when I see a flicker of motion from the corner of my eye. I startle, spinning on my heel, and in the darkness and coolness of the observation deck I face my tormentor for the first time.

Well, I almost do. There is the familiar giggle, the whisper of my name, and something that _might_ have been a woman slips into the walls of the _Enterprise_ like mist.

Heart pounding, I leave the observation deck.

I do not hear her that night, and it's the next day when I finally corner Bones in sickbay, practically dragging Spock by the arm, and lock us all in his office.

"Bones," I say, the first thing out of my mouth before I can tuck my tail and change my mind, or either one of them can speak to patronize me, "the _Enterprise_ is haunted."

"Haunted." Bones echoes, and Spock's eyebrows go up to his hairline. "Jim, _really_, I-"

I explain about the observation deck. Bones groans; Spock's eyebrow has now gone past his hairline and resides somewhere on the ceiling of the _Enterprise_ herself.

"Jim, I really think you're just- overtired-"

"Bones, we have had nothing of any note happen for almost two months now," I growl, "what, _exactly,_ am I overtired from?"

"The only other explanation is-"

"A ghost." I finish for him. "And after everything we have seen and done, you have trouble swallowing that- _why_, exactly?"

"There has never been any evidence of the paranormal, Captain." Spock says, very slowly. "Everything we have encountered has been rationally explained away."

"Then how do you logically, rationally, explain this away, Spock?"

There is no answer, and in a very twisted, horribly morbid way, I am satisfied.

The next day, I am hearing her voice again, and I realize with a jolt why I can't seem to escape from it.

Much like Sargon-also many, many months ago- her voice is coming _from the walls themselves. _

_And at long last, Bones hears her, too. _


	2. Chapter 2

He comes to me in the middle of the ship's 'night', buzzing insistently at my door until I drag myself out of sleep and groan at him to come in.

"Okay," Bones says, as I'm still waking up and trying to figure out why my CMO is in my quarters at easily one in the 'morning' and looking like he needs a drink. "Okay, so the _Enterprise_ is haunted."

I blink, then blink again, raising the lights.

"What changed your mind?" I ask, thankful I sleep in sweatpants.

He waves a hand at the ceiling- his face is all Bones, irritation and aggravation and under it, the faintest touch of the fear he's trying to hide. "Bones," I say, more gently, "You alright?"

"No. I don't think so." He mutters, running a hand over his face and sitting on the edge of my bed. "Jim, this ghost of yours- she's a…..well, a _she_?"

"As far as I can tell." I say. "What _happened_?" I harden my voice, firm it a little, and he instinctively responds to the tone of command. It's a very good way to snap someone out of shock; subconscious takes over for them, and they seem to calm down.

"I heard your girl's voice." He says, "But I swear to goodness, Jim-_it sounded like Joanna_."

I stop, jaw working, trying to make sense of this. The voice had never sounded like anyone specific, to me. "What did she say, Bones?" I ask, gently, reaching over to put a hand on his shoulder.

"She just- said my name, then giggled and was gone." He shakes his head. "And she-touched my face, brushed it. It was almost….soothing." He looks up at me, blue eyes dark with confusion and exhaustion.

"Soothing?"

"Like-" He motions helplessly, then runs a hand over his face. "Like it really _was_ Joanna, there, somehow on the ship. It sounds crazy." He chuckles weakly. "It _is_ crazy."

"No." I say, tightening my grip on his shoulder. "Bones, it's not."

"It can't be a-a-_Jim_-"

"Why not?" I ask, throwing my hands up. "We don't _know_ everything that's out here. We've seen things, places, people, that someone else might call 'made up' or 'impossible'. We found Jack The Ripper, for heaven's sake, and _he_ wasn't human! Apollo, remember, Bones?" I twist him to face me. "And people who can manipulate any and everything with their minds, and a portal to any time you can imagine-"

"I know, Jim, _I know_," He returns, cutting off my rant. He doesn't pull away from my touch, though, partly because he knows my quirks too well and partly because he's taking comfort in the contact, too. "but it's like Spock said, all those things had a rational explanation."

"That's not true." I snap. "Give me your _rational_ explanation for the Guardian of Forever, Bones. Okay, technically, it's a machine. If you're being _purely technical_, you can explain it. But why is it there? Why is it sentient, to a point? Who made it? Why? Where are they now? Why would they leave it? What happened to them? When you get down to the bare bones of it, _you don't know_, and we can't explain it."

Bones now pulls away, slowly, pressing his fingers into his eyes with a slight groan. He's old-fashioned, at heart; no matter how long he's been in space or what he's seen and done, he always will be, as he often says, _an old country doctor_. I'm not as surprised as I'm pretending to be that he's having trouble swallowing the idea of a ghost- or _whatever _this thing really is.

"And why," He asks, after a moment, "are you so sure that this thing is a ghost, and not anything else?"

"I'm not." I say, and I'm _not_- it could be anything. Some kind of anomaly that was causing apparition like occurrences on my ship- someone, somewhere, playing with us, myself going slightly crazy (although Bones had heard it, now, too), hell, even something in the ship itself. "It's just- the best explanation I have right now." I'm not a superstitious man, not _really_. I'm a religious one, yes, but not 'superstitious'. But sometimes- just sometimes- I wonder. And there is no part of me that says this _can't_ be a ghost. I'm no one to say what can or can not be with no room for compromise.

"_That_ is your best explanation?" He barks a laugh, the sound rough and humorless. "We _are_ in trouble then."

I scowl playfully and swat at him. "Wait until _Spock_ says that, then you can worry." I tell him, and he snorts.

"If _he_ starts hearing ghosts, I _will_ worry." He mutters.

I chuckle and pat his shoulder again. "Look, this- ghost, or whatever you want to call it- it seems like it's harmless. It's played some jokes, scared the pants off us, but it hasn't tried to _hurt_ us. In fact, it seems like….it wants just the opposite." I admit to what I'm thinking rather stiffly. But Bones nods almost instantly, pressing his palms into the bed.

"Like it's-curious and shy." He agrees slowly, and I relax because Bones is no longer treating me like a mad person, at least.

"Right. So it's harmless, so go back to bed." I say, giving him a gentle push. "We'll collect Spock tomarrow, tell him you heard her, too."

"And watch him try to logic away the whole situation." McCoy snarks. "I'm not looking forward to what our space elf is going to have to say."

"_Bones_." I scold, but I'm laughing. Everything seems just a little easier to handle when I've got at least one of my two best friends on my side. I'm suddenly very tired again, and I notice he looks that way, too. Apparently, I'm not the only one that feels the sudden shift in weight. It's almost as if, by yourself, things like this are far too heavy, too strange, too _much_- but the moment someone else you trust, and love, and respect steps in under the burden, too, it's much lighter. "Go back to bed."

"Alright, Jim." He says quietly, patting my leg. "I'll see you in the morning."

"'Night." I return, already squirming my way back under the covers. I'm asleep I think before my head hit's the pillow, getting the last four hours I will before I have to wake up for real.

_________________________________________________________

Morning comes far too soon after my little wake-up call via Bones. I'm not a morning person-never have been. I _can_ snap awake, fully aware, when I have to-and it leaves me feeling sick and bad-tempered for hours afterward, particularly if it's a false alarm. I prefer to crawl towards consciousness, take my time and wake up like a cat, slow and steady.

I don't have the luxury today, because someone is petting my cheek.

I snap awake and instinctively grab for the unfamiliar hand. It's small, delicate, female, and there is a smell like crisp, cool air and growing things; flowers, plants, trees. Outdoors.

My hand grasps someone's delicate, soft arm, and in one smooth motion, still not fully awake, I yank downward, meaning to flip her onto the bed. I do, and then I stop in shock when I see what I'm not straddling.

She's _beautiful_.

No, I mean, all women-I mean, I appreciate beauty. Male, female, I have an eye for it and I'm never afraid to openly express my thoughts on the subject if I know it's welcome. Particularly female beauty-women are beautiful, inside and out, soft and strong, delicate and complex, and so painfully easy to fall in love with. But this person, woman, below me-I can do nothing but _stare_.

Her eyes are black. _Black_ black, like space, but there is a glowing, cat-slit pupil that is as silver as the hull of the _Enterprise_. There are no whites in her eyes that I can see, just that rich blackness and the silver pupils. Her hair is white, a stark contrast, and her skin is chocolate, a richer brown even then Uhura's. High cheekbones, sculpted, strong features. Full lips, shades lighter then her skin, and long lashes as white as her hair. There is pure, naïve innocence on that beautiful face, no fear of me at all- simply child-like curiosity. It reminds me of the way Gem looked at me, the empathic girl Spock, McCoy and I discovered once.

She is wearing nothing but a white slip, almost a dress but not quiet. Her breasts are small, her figure delicately curved, slight- she looks like a dancer. Long, endlessly long legs rest blow mine, leading into a pert behind and a gently curved spine.

And just below her shoulder blades are two, translucent butterfly wings.

I kid you not. _Butterfly wings._ They were pale, shimmering, almost non-existant, but brilliantly gold, and the moment I noticed them, she gives them a flutter and me a playful wink.

"Jim Kirk!" She chirps, reaching for my face with the hand I do not have pinned. Her long, slender fingers trail over my cheekbone. "J-i-m- K-i-r-k!" She's smiling brightly, not at all concerned. But her face screws up, then, brow furrowing, and the light, piping little voice changes, suddenly.

"Jim. James Kirk." She tries again, and I'd know Edith Keeler's voice anywhere. I yank back in shock, unable to stop the reaction, and she blinks wide, startled eyes up at me. She tips her head, like a dog confused as to why it's been punished. "James Kirk should not be…..fr-frightened? No harm." Still in Edith's voice, but with halting, awkward sentences.

"Stop that," I tell her. She blinks in confusion. "Stop it, right now."

She clamps her lips shut, looking hurt. "You like the pretty." She says, in her own voice again. "Pretty pretty lady."

"She's dead." I say, trying to stay calm. "Don't use her voice."

"Why?"

"It hurts, that's why." She honestly doesn't understand. There is no comprehension in her eyes, in her face, and I wonder if she even understands death or pain.

"James Kirk likes." She says, confirming what I just thought and using Edith's voice again instead of her own. She nods once, firmly. "He likes pretty, pretty lady."

She gives her wings another flutter, tipping her head at me and then leaning up. Her lips press to my cheek in the softest of kisses, and, just like that, she fades away _through_ my bed.

I reach up to slowly touch my cheek where her lips had pressed, so briefly, and realize that my hand is shaking.

I reach over, using the comm to reach sickbay. "Bones," I say, when I do, "Are you _sure_ I'm not loosing my mind?"


	3. Chapter 3

"Joanna for me. Edith for you." Bones says, tipping back in his chair in the briefing room, running a hand over his face. "Wonder why she hasn't appeared to anyone else yet?"

"We said ourselves she acted….shy." I say. "Spock, nothing out of the ordinary has happened to you?"

"No, Captain." Spock says, lacing his fingers calmly in front of his face. "Perhaps because she knows I am less inclined to put stock in such superstitions."

" 'You have to believe it for it to be true'. I've heard that somewhere before." McCoy mutters. "Could be, Spock. Maybe she'd have a harder time influencing you."

"But you do believe she's there." I say, glancing sharply over. Spock looks down at his folded hands, lets out a low breath in what translates to his version of a sigh.

"As…..overly emotional as the doctor tends to be, I do not have reason to believe he would say he heard 'something' if he did not." He says at last, slowly. "While I still can not kin to the idea of a 'spirit', there is undeniably some presence that has affected both of you."

"So if it's not what we think it is, how do _you_ explain it?" I ask, trying to keep the impatient snap from my voice.

"I have not had time to correlate a hypothesis yet, Captain," He drawls, and I loose the battle with myself when I all but growl- "You mean _you don't know_."

"Yet." Spock says, and I want to call him on the irritated sense I can hear in those words, like a wet cat. He sounds downright offended, and if I wasn't running on about four hours of sleep it might have been funny.

As it stands, it's all I can do not to growl something rude at him. McCoy raises a brow at me, as if sensing it, and I take a deep breath to steady myself.

"Well, then," I say, my tone light once more, "we're going to call it a ghost until we know what it actually is. Because it sure _looked_ like-" I stop, aware of how insane it sounds but unable to change facts, "it looked and felt like one." I finish, more softly, closing my eyes. "Sorry," I add, for biting at him, Spock inclines his head slightly.

"It is as you said." He says. "She seems to be ultimately harmless. But her insistence on using voices you both find familiar is undoubtedly taxing."

Which is Spock for, '_I understand_.' I smile slightly, my apology very much accepted, and push into a stand. "start _correlating_ then, Mr. Spock," I say, making sure to let him hear my teasing. "or I'm going to have to call an exorcist."

_________________________________

I wouldn't. Call an exorcist, that is. Because really, our 'ghost' has been utterly harmless.

In one week I haven't seen her again, let alone as well as the day I managed to pin her to the bed, if only for a moment (and if only because she wanted me to.) I do hear her, again, though; sometimes her own voice, light and piping, and sometimes she still calls to me as Edith, and it's those moments that I usually stuff a pillow over my head (which I found works, for some reason or other; maybe she just can't fathom out what I'm doing to myself, because she stops and usually starts to pick at the pillow and coo like a bird. Once, I _threw_ the pillow, more to see what would happen then anything. Still invisible, she caught it, and for the next ten minute proceeded to toss it to herself all over my quarters. She only stopped when I started to laugh, and said my name in utmost curiosity.)

She's still speaking to Bones as Joanna, and we quickly found the pattern _there_- he only heard her when he was stressed.

Then she'd pipe his name in Joanna's voice, and, once, disconcertingly, she even called him _daddy_. (I'd been there for that one, and threatened with bodily harm if I kept laughing.)

But only ever when he was stressed. "She seems to be attempting to comfort you in the only way she knows how. " Spock said, one evening. "She has possibly seen Joanna, in your memories perhaps, and is using her to try and 'calm' you."

"As if she can't understand the difference between the real person and herself imitating them."

"Or expects, perhaps, for it not to matter." Spock tips his head slightly. "Perhaps she-it-assumes that simply hearing the voice of a loved one is enough."

I stop, considering her honest confusion, her inability to understand why I'm so upset when she uses Edith's voice. Her use of Joanna's voice when Bones is stressed or frightened.

"Why is the _Enterprise_ playing host to a woman with butterfly wings in the first place?" Bones asks, the next time we are together, eating. "Why would a ghost-or _anything_- be haunting this ship?"

"If you insist on calling it a 'ghost', doctor, I can not tell you." Spock sits back slowly. "However, there are any number of races we have yet to encounter, and we have seen that a few of those are capable of getting onto the ship in the most unconventional methods. And if 'it' is not a living being, there _are_ anomalies in space that can cause bizarre events on a ship." Here he pauses, giving us both a _don't get carried away_ look, or the Vulcan variation on such. "There are no life forms registering in this sector of the galaxy, however-including the one on this ship."

"So she's either hiding her presence from the ship's scanners somehow, or-"

"-not a life form."

"Which _could_ mean she is an android-"

"Or a ghost." I finish, and can't help but grin at the subtle, exasperated look he gives me. Spock's never been a hard read; not for me, and not for McCoy, and I can't see why anyone would believe his claims of 'not feeling'. Sure, Bones forgets it from time to time, but he never honestly believes Spock doesn't _feel_; and neither do I.

These moments cement it.

I grin in return, propping my chair back-and as I do so, something tickles over the back of my neck. _Every single hair_ on my body stands straight up, and I yelp at the cold, light touch, slapping a hand to the offended spot.

"Jim?" McCoy asks, and no sooner does he say it then I hear him curse and jump. Apparently she got to him, too, because there is an impish little giggle.

And then, suddenly, she is _there_, in all her butterfly winged glory, and hovering just an inch above the ground with her nose so close to Spock's it looks like she might kiss him. Her hands are on his wrists, and she's grinning that bright little-girl grin.

"I'm real as real, silly." She chirps, and if I was not holding my breath and waiting for whatever was going to happen, I would have laughed aloud at anyone calling Spock 'silly'. She tips her head again, and this time-

"So serious, Spock," She coos, and that is Amanda Greyson's voice as sure as I am sitting here, perfect in pitch, cadence, _everything_ just as I remember her sounding. She reaches out to pat his cheek-he stops her smoothly, and she lands, staring at his hand gripping hers.

"_Oh_," She whispers, lifting her eyes to his. "_Oh!"_ And suddenly she wrenches, twisting, throwing herself away from him.

"Spock-"

"-the hell?-"

Myself and McCoy, respectively. Bones is out of his seat insantly and the second Spock lets go of her, the girl flings herself towards me, staring up with those strange eyes now filled with tears.

"Jim Kirk!" She cries, in her own voice, not Edith's. She sounds like she's about to sob. A woman crying has never been something I handle well, and instinct had me reaching for her, making shushing sounds already in my throat before I even know I'm doing it.

But she's gone before my arms can make contact, leaving only a shaken Bones, an altogether too calm Spock, and a completely bewildered James Kirk in the room.


	4. Chapter 4

"I am a touch-telepath, as are all Vulcans." Spock's voice is level and calm, which seems a stark contrast to the high emotion of just moments before. "Apparently, she is also some form of telepathic or empathic race, and I frightened her. She is, it seems, unlikely that she's ever met another like herself, outside her own race. Also, we were very….different…..in our mental contact."

"Different?" I ask. I've felt Spock's mental touch before. A mind meld has never, to me, been something unpleasant or difficult. His touch is warm and familiar, like a blanket on a cold night, slipping into my mind with no effort- he says that's more because of me then anything else-and never invading any places I want kept private, never causing pain. He's always open, too; allowing a two-way 'link' rather then a one-way manipulation. I can't understand why anyone would be afraid of or pained by it. (McCoy is the only one I know who has any negative reaction to it; Spock says trying to meld with him is like a mental collision until he can be coaxed into relaxing.)

"Far more….invasive."

"It's _possible_ for something to be more invasive then digging around in a person's mind?"

He knows that's now how it works, not _really_. I raise a brow. "Bones," I scold, because he does know, and I get a bad-natured scowl in reply but his eyes don't hold real malice.

Spock's gaze is impassive, but he looks, in his way, mildly irritated. "It is, doctor, and it does not have to be negative in it's connotations." He sits back in the chair, hands now in his lap. "But it is as I said; I believe my own telepathic abilities frightened her."

I lower my head, remembering her tears, her _panic_. She hadn't been just startled, she'd been like a spooked deer; terrified and confused. "Spock, why would that frighten her so badly?"

Spock glances up at me. "I am also very unlike both of you. I am not human." He reminds me softly. "I do not think and react the way humans do. The combination of the two most likely confused her and scared her."

"Spock scared off the butterfly, hu?" Bones teases gently, but when he meets my eyes he looks-disturbed. We don't know where she's gone or what she'll do, and there's absolutely no way we can find her unless she wants to be found.

Which means she is now running around my ship, frightened, angry, and I hope it means our friendly, confusing Casper won't turn into something much worse.

"Bones," I snap, not in the mood for those two to start bickering. I know it's harmless, and I know they don't really feel any animosity for each other. Their constant picking at each other is their own odd way of showing it, and usually not something that disturbs me. Just the contrary- it's comforting and familiar background noise, the warm sound of my brothers teasing and aggravating each other. Now, though, I'm hardly in the mood. "Spock, _not now_."

Spock pushes calmly up from his chair. "I'll see if I can locate her using the ship's scanners, Captain."

"You won't." I say, because we already _know_ she can make herself completely invisible to us if she wants. I glance at Spock- if he actually feels _bad_ about spooking her, I might not be able to help laughing. For all his denial of emotion, he is one of the biggest hearted men I know, and it's so completely like him to feel guilty over it. "Don't worry about it, Spock. I'm sure-" I pause, because I'm _not_ sure at all. "-I'm sure she'll pop back up when she's ready." I am sure about the next part, though, after thinking about it a moment. "I don't think she'll do any harm, even upset. I don't know what she'll _do_, but I don't think it'll be harmful."

"Then at least allow me to continue in the attempt to discover what this-woman-truly is." He presses, as McCoy rises, too.

"Spock, you said yourself there are no other life forms registering in this area, and it'd be nearly impossible to hide from our scanners." He says, the pair of them leaving the room mid-bicker, heads lowered together like a pair of conspiring teenage girls. I chuckle, watching them go-it's good for them, the arguing. It's the same reason I tell people to argue with me-having someone at your elbow playing devil's advocate helps you think in ways you might not if you don't have that person. And sometimes it brings ideas to light you'd never consider alone.

I push my own chair back, listening to the door hiss shut, and press my palms to the table. At least now we know why Spock hasn't been 'haunted'. The question now is- _will_ he be?

I go to my own quarters, stripping off my shirt and undershirt as I go. I drop them lazily on my floor-Bones would _kill_ me if we ever were forced to share a room, I know that much without having to think about it very hard- and sit on the edge of my bed to work off my boots. I toss those aside, too, and lay out on my bed tiredly.

I don't _really_ remember my eyes falling shut, and I didn't _fall asleep_, exactly. I hear her when she comes in, and I lay with my eyes closed, listening to her cross the room.

"Jim Kirk?" She asks, and she's still crying, I can hear it in her voice. I shouldn't be surprised that she came to me; even that it was this soon after. She moves to the foot of my bed. I don't move, don't even open my eyes as her hand ghosts over my leg, my arm. "James?"

Edith's voice. I still don't move. Her hand grips my upper arm, tightly, and is shaking. "The man scares me. What is he?"

"My best friend, or one of two." I say slowly, eyes still closed.

"He is not like you."

"In many ways, yes." I say, and her fingers are ghosting up the side of my face now, pushing through my hair. It feels nice, despite myself. "But he isn't someone to be frightened of."

"He feels strongly, but doesn't." She whispers. Her hand is resting on my chest now, and her scent has changed. From wilderness and outdoors to a faint impression of vanilla and peaches.

_Now_ I open my eyes.

And she not only sounds like Edith, now she _looks_ like her, too. Soft, big green eyes with those long lashes of hers, locked on me in curiosity. Her dark hair is all done up in a proper bun, swept away from her long neck; there is the pale, cream-tone skin, the lips slightly parted in that adorable, perpetual pout, legs for days and curves where all curves should be on a woman. Her eyes are red from crying, and tears streak down her cheeks, marring her make-up. "But you," She says, "feel strong. All strong. Everything, all the way." She frowns, touches my face and this time I feel a _tug_, a _pulling_ sensation I've never felt with Spock. Like he's roughly turning the pages of a book.

"You feel……everything strongly." She says, and I realize she's taken Standard from my mind, too, just like she took everything to build this perfect model of the woman I lo-well.

"Especially about this person." She sweeps a hand over her own chest, head tipped. "This person….you find beautiful."

"Yes," I whisper, unable to stop staring. Damn it, I should be able to stop staring. "Yes, I find her very beautiful. But you are not her."

She tips her head. "But I look like her. Smell like her. Feel like her….tell me, James Kirk, do I taste like her as well?"

And she is kissing me.

My arms come up out of pure insintinct, wrap around her hips and even while I don't kiss her in return I can say that _yes, she most certainly does_. Soft and pliant beneath me, her scent everywhere, lips and tongue and teeth warring with my own (because somewhere along the line I _did_ kiss back) and not totally submissive. A woman like Edith would never be _totally_ submissive.

_She knows how to act because you know how you expect her to act_, says a little, nasty voice in the back of my mind, _wake up, Jim, this is no more Edith then Spock is._

But I don't want to. Not right now.

I kiss back, kiss hard, and let my hands go from her hips to her waist, the material of her shirt sliding up under my hands. She nips my lower lip, laughing softly, playfully, and I reel back, pressing kisses down her long, pale neck, pausing at the joint to bite and suck softly.

She moans. The sound goes down my spine straight to my groin. "Jim," She whispers, in that husky voice, accent thick with lust and desire, and her hands are working at my shirt now. "You are far too clothed."

I decide to remedy that situation for _both of us. _


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: This is directed to Space Trio. Frankly, I don't normally acknowledge people like you, but sadly, you do not have an account or did not sign in, and I must address your idiocy in the public eye. **

**I don't give a shit if you stop reading it. Do not threaten me, do not tell me what to write, and do not think I care if you like it or not that I wrote in something of a more adult nature. This is rated for a reason. Pay attention to it next time. It's not my fault that you are a sheltered, stupid prude. Be glad I don't write smut, child-instead I chose a tasteful 'fade to black' effect, in order to KEEP THE RATING APPROPRIATE. (Also, there is a HUGE difference between sensuality and sexuality; you need to learn it. Shut up and sit down.) **

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When I wake up, she's gone. The scent of her lingers everywhere, combining with the scent of sex and myself. I stirr tiredly, pressing a hand through my hair and trying to figure out what woke me. I realize it a moment later at the familiar buzzing sound of the ship's comm, and reach over to slap it with the side of a fist.

"Kirk," I groan into it, aware that I do not sound at my best, nor that it particularly bothers me. I snap fully awake, though, as Spock's voice echoes into my room.

"Captain, are you well?" He asks, and under the bland tone I can hear both concern and aggravation. You have to know Spock to hear it, but I do and therefore, _can_. I flinch slightly, sitting up on my elbows.

"I'm fine, Spock." I reply, looking at the clock on my table. It shows me that I am exactly one hour and fifteen minutes late for my shift to begin. (Yes. Yes, even a captain has a shift. I am _always_ the captain, but I have certain stretches of time where I _have_ to be on the bridge. ) And I am an hour and fifteen minutes late for it.

"Captain, you are precisely one hour and-"

"-fifteen minutes late for my shift, yes, Mr. Spock, I've realized that." I'm scrambling up, blanket landing on the floor just the other side of my bed. "I'll be there in just a few-"

"Yes, captain." Spock says, interrupting me. "Doctor McCoy and I will discuss what caused your tardiness later."

"Spock, you don't need to know-" _And there is no way I'm actually going to tell you__-_

"I believe we do, captain." His voice is quiet, insistent. "If it is for the same reason our disturbances have been of late."

I could pull rank on him. I could tell him that it was my business, and he had no right to pry into it. But Spock is my friend before he is my first officer, and I _like_ for both my friends and my officers to argue with me for the same reasons I pointed out before.

"Later, then." I say calmly- for now, I need a shower. I click off the comm and grab a clean shirt and pants. A quick shower later and I am back on my bridge, head up and looking, thankfully, like I am not at all late. Spock's eyes follow me as I walk, but he's the only one that seems to notice or care that I'm tardy; unsurprisingly so. I take my seat, and let the day go by without anything out of the ordinary occurring.

And amazing, that is exactly what happens.

We meet for lunch in my quarters, Bones, Spock and I.

"Spock tells me you were late this morning, Jim." Bones says, when the subject finally rolls around to what happened last night- or, if you prefer, this morning, though frankly I think 'last night' is more appropriate. "Did she do something to you?"

I am, for one moment, incredibly glad I'm no longer a boy. Otherwise, I might not have been able to contain the laughter that wants to bubble up, born half of true amusement and half of pure tension. "You could…..say that." I manage tightly, and Spock's brow is on the ceiling again. This time, McCoy's has joined it.

"Well, are you okay?" Bones barks, half-rising. I lift a hand, motioning him to sit back down.

"Fine. I'm…..I'm _fine_, Bones." He stops, lowering himself back into his seat, his eyes filling with his typical healer's concern, but now there is something skeptical and _knowing_ there, too.

"Jim. Ah, Jim, _tell_ me you didn't." He groans.

And there it is, in Spock's other eyebrow, in the way he's suddenly ramrod straight. "I suppose it was inevitable, with her constant appearance to you as Edith Keeler and her scare after attempting to investigate into my own mind." He says calmly, fingers steepled in front of him. "The emotional intensity and your own lingering-" He stops, careful with his words as my usual blunt first officer is so rarely with me. "lingering feelings….for Ms. Keeler was a potent combination."

I take a breath and push my hand through my hair. I will always have 'lingering feelings' for Edith. I have been in love a very few times in my life; _real_ love. Edith was one of those times. I would have brought her, or stayed with her, if I could have; I know without having to consider it that I would have married her, if I was anyone else, in any other world, or time, or even here, now, on the _Enterprise_. (I have one wild moment when I touch the table lightly as if in apology; there is 'another woman' in my life, and I don't doubt for one moment that if _Enterprise_ was a flesh-and-blood woman she'd be dangerously possessive.)

"It's not anything to worry about." I reply, and even I want to hit myself the moment the weak tone is out of my mouth. I clear my throat, try again. "She wanted…..I don't know what she wanted." I finish rather lamely. "But whatever it was, she knew how to get it, and it was harmless, ultimately."

"We've been throwing that word around a lot lately." Bones mutters. "When we _still_ don't know who or what she is or what she wants."

_Me, apparently, or she did last night_.

Spock's turn to clear his throat, softly, for attention. We both glance at him, and while he looks faintly pained around his eyes, he speaks. "She is not a life form. Not as we know it, in any case. We are in, as you once put it, doctor, a 'star desert'. There are no planetary bodies of any type within range of the _Enterprise_, and she simply does not register on any scanner sweep within the ship, or of the ship itself."

"When she pops up in sickbay, nothing registers her there, either." Bones chimes in, sighing. "Maybe Jim's right. Maybe she _is_ a ghost."

"With butterfly wings?" Spock would be smirking, if he let himself. He wants to- I can see it in his eyes.

"Is there anything to say she shouldn't have them?" I ask, raising a brow at him in attempted mockery. I'm pretty certain I fail in my attempt. "We don't know what she is or where she comes from, so how do we say what she's supposed to _look like_?"

Spock's eyebrow is considerably more eloquent then mine. "There is a far higher chance she is some race we do not know of."

"One that doesn't register as a life form?" I ask. "One with no planet anywhere in this area capable of supporting life?"

"No planets, period, Jim." Bones says quietly, tapping out a rhythm on the table. "Nothing but stars and space."

"We have encountered races capable of transporting themselves and others incredible distances in the past." Spock points out, unmoving. His analytical mind will not allow him to consider the possibility of a 'ghost' until there is undeniable, irrefutable proof. "Need I remind you, gentlemen, of Triskelion?"

I chew my lower lip thoughtfully. It's something Bones gets at me for constantly-he jokes that if it isn't my lip, it's whatever's foolish enough to get within range of my mouth that gets chewed on. He's caught me with pins, pencils, my hands, and once, the edge of a communicator. (I hadn't even realized I was _gnawing_ on the damn thing until he'd reached up and tugged it away. I had the taste of copper in my mouth for the rest of the day.) I've actually drawn blood from my own lip, and it's for that reason McCoy tries to end the habit.

Like now. His hands twitch, like he wants to stop me; I let my lip out of my teeth obligingly and he relaxes. I bite down on the urge to laugh.

"No," I say, "I remember Triskelion." And I _do_, and they _had_ taken Chekov, Uhura and I from the ship to a planet miles away; so far away, in fact, that the crew had trouble believing we'd been brought there until they found us. Only Spock's relentless determination had discovered us- and isn't that funny, that Spock could be so set on finding us alive that he would track us to a planet we could not, to a _logical _mind, be on; and yet he denies fervently the possibility of a ghost.

Spock's a complex creature. Even now, almost two years into our mission, I haven't got him entirely figured out. I wonder if I ever will.

"I remember it, too," Bones drawls, "and if you would like to go searching for some distant planet she could possibly come from, Mr. Spock-"

"Then I would object very much to my ship being dragged all across the galaxy." I interrupt wryly, smirking. "And I don't think Starfleet would much care for it, either." Although, by this point, they should be used to the _Enterprise _being involved in the most unorthodox, tense, unusual, and downright _strange_ situations imaginable. We're her flagship; if we're not the first crew to arrive in a new situation, it's only because the _first_ crew died, or dissapered, or became raving lunatics, or interfered somehow in social development.

So, you know, because it went over _so well_ the first time, they send us in next.

But then, all things considered, we're not your average crew. So I guess it makes sense. Still, sometimes…..sometimes I wonder why beurocratic paper pushers are allowed to pretend they know what to do in a bad situation instead of relying on the people who have _been there_. I don't often buck under Starfleet's saddle. I'm an _officer_, and in the end, I'm one that gets away with a _damn lot_ most others don't, because myself and my crew are the best and Starfleet _knows it_. I take my orders, I do as I'm told, and when I think it's a bad idea I say so. Repeatedly, if necessary, and if the situation calls for me to jerk the reins away and go against orders I have a good reason for doing it and I do so fully prepared to take responsibility for it.

But sometimes I want to beat them all upside their collective heads with something heavy until I've banged some sense into them.

"Or maybe out of it," Bones grunts, jerking me from thought. I snort.

"Let's skip that, then, shall we?" I sit back, close my eyes. "It's not like she's hurting anything."

"_You_ are not adverse to having some unknown entity on your ship?" Bones folds his arms. "Jim, are you _sure_ she didn't do-" He stops, chokes, reconsiders his words. "didn't hurt you?"

I laugh. "She most certainly did _not_," I drawl, and he groans. "Bones, no, I'm _not_ okay with her being on the ship when we don't understand what or who she is, or what she wants. But what can we do but wait her out? She wants something, anyway, and she'll make it known eventually."

"And what if that _something_ is this ship?"

"We'll deal with that if it happens." I say, calmly. It's how I have to think. If I start letting my mind wander to every _what if_, every possible future event, I'll probably loose it. It's better to wait, and watch, and prepare. Better to react when something has or is about to happen, rather then over-react before anything has. And when there's not really anything you _can_ do, worrying will only drive you mad.

Our question of who's side she's on, at least, is answered that night, when I wake to small hands shaking me, a low, concerned voice whispering my name. Lips on my cheek, on my own lips. "James Kirk!" Urgent, feirce. "James! Wake up, please, you _must_!"

My eyes flutter, and I know she's Edith by her smell and feel of her skin. I push her away, sitting up in the darkness of my room.

"Lights, fifty percent." I say calmly, and when they raise I can see her wringing her hands and pacing before my bed. She stops, chewing her lip.

"He's here!" She says, throwing herself at me. She latches onto my waist and presses her face into my chest. "I hoped he wouldn't come but he has and now he's _here_ and you have to stop him!"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down." I say gently, pulling her off of me a few inches. She's crying again, and so help me, even knowing it's not her seeing tears in Edith's eyes breaks my heart. I push it away, down, hard, bringing the cool, hard place of me that is the _Enterprise's_ captian to the forefront. "_Who_ is here?"

"_Him!_"

That doesn't help me. I bite back the irriation and brush a hand over her face. I don't even know her real name.

"It's okay," I tell her softly, "we'll-stop 'him'. But you have to tell me who it is I'm trying to get." I say. "I can't do any thing to any one if I don't know who he _is. _Now just calm down."

She looks up at me with those beautiful eyes that are and aren't Edith's, and they shimmer and swim with unshed tears.

"The man who killed me," She whispers, "And who wants to kill you, too."


	6. Chapter 6

**a/n: I appologize for the outburst of the previous chapter. To all my other fantastic reviewers-thanks SO much. You guys rock my socks, and I hope I don't loose you over it! **

Well, so much for her being anything but a ghost.

I'm fully awake almost instantly, sitting up as her distressed form flickers between Edith and her natural apperance, like a bad connection.

"Stop that," I bark, as she does it again, hand over her mouth. "Look, you don't have to-"

She blinks. "But you-this human is-"

I grab, shake her gently. "Edith was very special, yes. That doesn't mean I'm not going to listen, or help you, because you're not her. Same for Bones, and Spock."

She blinks. "But the way you look when I am her-so soft, and tender-" She seems to jerk out of it. "I miss seeing such a look."

She had a lover, then. No wonder she came to me as the woman I loved. Not only yo get the attention- she used everyone close to us for that- but for me, specifically, because she-because-she…..is standing very close.

I push her away again gently.

"Who is trying to kill me?" I ask gently, trying to figure out not only how a murderer would get through Starfleet but past Bones, Spock, and myself. I feel-contaminated, suddenly. This is the _Enterprise_, it is home and safety no matter what is out there in the darkness of space, and now there is something sinister creeping unnoticed inside her.

And it's not the first time.

"Him," She whispers pathetically, still as Edith, still with her hand on my cheek. "He loved me, but not-me, he loved her, like you do this person, but I'm not this person and I wasn't her and I can't be _not really _I can't be!"

I try to sort that rambling mess out in my head, stroking her back soothingly. "You could take on other forms…..before?" I ask cautiously, and she nods, pressing her face into my chest. "And you….pretended to be someone else for a man."

"He loved her so." She whispers. "I just wanted-that."

_But he didn't love you, _I think. _And when you couldn't __**really**__ be the woman he __**did**__ love….._

"He killed you over it."

She whimpers and nods into my chest again. And when she pulls back, her form ripples and blurrs, and when she I clear and I can focuse on her again I recognize, with a jolt, who I am staring at.

A pretty little black-haired yeoman I'd seen once or twice- her name was Lilisa Monroe, I remember her because she'd _been_ so incredibly tiny. Black haired and blue eyed, with fair skin and a nearly constant smile.

But Lilisa _isn't dead_. Which means she wasn't pretending to be a member of my crew.

"….He kept you secret?" I ask. She flickers forms again, taking on Edith's once more.

"Yes," She whispers, turning away from me.

"How?"

"I could be unseen even alive." She says. "Change shape, be unseen, much I can do now, in death. I came with him as such. He brought me because he knew he could not have _her_. And when he killed me intead of her-I was glad." She turns, tears in her eyes again. "That poor girl would have died. Will still die, if you don't _stop him_."

"And why did you say 'wants to kill me'?" I ask, eyebrow raised. I am no beautiful young girl. I'm used to people wanting me dead. I'm used to people wanting me dead for any number of reasons, but they all, eventually, end up being about _Enterprise_, or because of something from my academy years-only once or twice is it _ever_ actually about _me_. And in this case, I can't really see how I come into play here.

Her smile is gentle, sympathetic, but it is edged with that expresion that means _you're missing something painfully obvious, _and she reaches for my face.

"He wants her. She wants you. _I _want you. You want this person. This person is dead." She says quietly, hand shaking. "He hates you because she wants you. Because I wanted you."

I feel…..a little flattered and a little stalked at the same time. I brush a hand over hers, tip my head to kiss her palm softly, shivering as her other hand runs down my chest. "I need to know who this person is." I say, wanting to pull her hand away from my chest, _knowing_ I should do that,unable to make myself. "I can't get him off my ship if you don't give me a name, or a face-"

She leans up with her mouth inches from my ear, lips moving soundlessly against my flesh. She says a name, her voice low, whimpering, and then presses her lips to mine. Her tears are wet on my skin.

When she pulls away again, she is herself, in all her beauty, and I press a thumb to her lips. She trembles and closes her eyes. "I loved you, James Kirk." She whispers. "The more I knew you, even though I knew you'd never see me, never know me, I did love you."

I kiss her gently, tipping her head up. She is not Edith. She does not even smell, or taste, or feel, or kiss like Edith did. It's like drinking champagne, kissing her; my lips tingle, then my whole body. I feel warm and a little light headed. Her hands are on my face, and her smell-of spring and nature-fills my nose. She's cold, and soft, and her skin erupts in sparks where it brushes over mine, and our lips make similar sparks, but they are less brillant. Silver, instead of gold. She presses closer to me, the swell of her breasts against my chest, her beautiful eyes closed, leg between mine, rubbing along me like a cat begging for attention. Her tounge finds it's way into my mouth and for one, wild moment, I think _I'm kissing a dead woman I'm kissing a dead women I had __**sex**__ with_- and then there is no more coherent thought, because she bites my lower lip and draws blood that she laps at gently, and I _can't_ think at that precise moment.

She pulls away, her fingers on my wounded lip. She's glowing. Literally. She's beaming at me, this slow, soft smile, and she is just _stunning_. I reach for her wings, touching my fingers to one and setting off more gold glitters. She gives it a flutter and the glitters surround both of us, spirling around like they're caught in a wind. Golden and glowing, and her eyes are filled with tears and when I lean in to kiss her again- _her_, this beautiful woman who's name I don't even know, this beautiful ghost who gives everything to the men she loves- she gasps and gives a little, broken sob. "Oh," She whimpers, "_that's_ what it's like."

And she bursts. Golden explosive sparks around me, around the room, everywhere. I can't see or breath or smell or hear, I can't do _anything_ but try to keep my balance desperately as the sparks twirl dizzying circles around me frantically until she suddenly goes _up_, and _out,_ and then there is yelling and phaser fire from just outside my door, and everything happens at once.

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	7. Chapter 7

I am outside the door with my own phaser in my hand before there is time for a second shot to go off. Bones stands there- surrounded by her golden glow- shaking like a leaf in a storm with his weapon pointed at a young leutenant and his shoulder bleeding pretty copiously. The sparks disaapper as I arrive, and Bones sort of _slumps_, as if he was going off an energy not necessarily his own. He hits the wall, leaving a streak of blood on her pale silver, and as he does, the man across from him raises his own weapon and it's only my own shot that saves Bones. My phaser is set to stun, not to kill, but I almost-almost- wish that wasn't the case. It flings the form backwards and when he slams into the wall, he ripples the way she had, as if not quiet able to hold his form.

"Bones, move!" I bark, advancing with my phaser held level. "Get Spock down from the bridge!"

He looks up at me, dazed, confusion strong, looking a little shell-shocked and in pain. "Doctor," I snarl, "_get Mr. Spock from the bridge_."

He snaps to, just as before, and staggers from the form that is shaking it's head and trying to rise now. He is a tall, slender form, easily with a couple inches on Spock, with shaggy blonde hair and dark skin. He's dressed in blue with no stripes on his cuff. When I get close enough, his head snaps up, and his cat-slit silver white pupils glint at me. He smirks.

"She's gone," he hisses, "you set her free with a kiss. How _romantic_."

I don't answer him. He doesn't deserve an answer. I tip up his chin with the butt of my phaser. "Where is her body?" I'm surprised at how I growl the words. My voice doesn't sound like me. It's broken, raspy, like I haven't spoken in days.

"I got rid of it." He replies, coldly, and I feel sick when I realize he's grinning. "She loved the stars so much, I figured I'd let her play among them."

It's a thought so strikingly harsh that it takes a moment for the implication to hit me. But with that grin, and the insanity in his eyes-

"You transported her into _space?" _My hand is shaking. My voice is shaking. How did this get on my ship? How did I _miss this_?

"Only after I was done with her." He shrugs, nonchalant, and smirks. "Oh, Captian, don't look so shocked. She was almost dead, anyway. Promise. She didn't last more then a minute."

_He spaced her alive. Hurt, dying, but still __**alive**__. _

I'm not even aware I've dropped the phaser and moved towards him until Spock grabs my elbow and spins me around so violently I loose my balance.

"_Captian_!" He barks, hands on my shoulders now. He has four security gaurds with him, and Bones is no where in sight. He is gripping me hard, and drags me back, away from the man I'm so very close to teaching just what not being able to breathe is like to. "Perhaps you should ensure doctor McCoy makes it to sickbay."

"Bones?…."

"Was injured." His voice is gentle, prodding. He pushes me in the appropriate direction. "We shall escort the prisoner to the brig."

I shake myself, take a breath and pull my captain persona around myself like a protective shield. I can't hurt right now. I can't be angry right now.

_Bones. Bones is hurt. Focuse on that. On him._

I turn and move quickly down the halls of my _Enterprise_, towards the turbo lift and sickbay. When I get there, Bones is sitting on one of the sickbay beds, helping Nurse Chapel wrap his shoulder. Numbly, I make my way over, reaching out to hold one end of the bandage for her. She startles and offers me a gentle smile.

"Are _you_ alright, Captian?"

"Unhurt." I tell her gently. "Will you give Doctor McCoy and I a moment, please, nurse?"

She blinks, nods slightly. "I'll go see if Ms. Monroe is doing better."

She leaves, and McCoy lifts his gaze to me, eyes too-blue in his pale face. "Jim, where is she?" he doesn't have to say who.

"I don't know," I reply, honestly, thinking about how our man had said _she's gone, you set her free_. "What happened?"

"Lilisa came to my cabin paniced," He begins, touching his shoulder lightly. "Wouldn't calm down, and by the time I got her to tell me what was he matter that kid," He jerks his hand disgustedly at the doors of sickbay. "had already got there. Waving that damn phaser around and ramblin' on. He'd totally lost his mind, Jim." He runs his good hand through his hair and takes a breath to steady himself. "And I'm not exaggerating. He'd _lost his mind_. A few nurses and I tried to sedate him but he was grabbing Lilisa and out the door before we could even alert anyone. I was going to call you out, but when I didn't follow immediately-"

He stops, and his eyes close, and suddenly my Bones looks his age. It scares me, for a minute. Bones doesn't ever look _old_. I know he's got a few years on me, but he never looks, never _acts_ like it. Now, though, he does, and I reach out to put a hand on his shoulder. Partly to comfort him, and maybe partly to ground myself, too, to reassure myself that he is Bones and real and alive and here, and he will be alright. He opens his eyes at my touch, and his lips tip up into a smile. He covers my hand with his own.

"She was here, Jim. Not as such, I didn't _see_ her, but I heard Joanna's voice again, cryin' and callin' me, tellin' me to hurry, something-pushin' at me." He clears his throat, and when he speaks again his accent has gotten less thick. He's calmed down somewhat. "Those-golden sparks came out of the walls, out of the ceiling, and they _herded_ me, Jim. Pushed me right on down the hall."

"She." I correct softly, and relax a little, closing my eyes and trying to stay calm. "She pushed you, Bones, you know it was her."

"I guess I do at that." He looks up at me. "The boy took a pot-shot off at me near your room. I think he was after you-"

"He was." I shake my head. "It's a long story, but here's the gist…." And I give him the shortest version of things I can. He listens, then groans softly.

"S' one big mess." He mutters. "And that poor little girl got killed over it. Don't you dare ever tell him I said this, but sometimes Spock has a point. Without passion, there'd be considerably less of _this_ to clean up."

"You _must_ be hurt, if you're throwing the round to Spock." I tease gently, trying to lift the mood a bit. Trying to do _something_. But his eyes are dark and hurt. He's even more disturbed by this then I am- the healer in him snarling and pacing the halls at the thought of what had been done to that girl. Bones has armor to put an armadillo to shame and enough quills to make a porcupine jealous, but under all that he's compassionate and gentle. He only wears it to protect himself- he's been hurt more then once and he's scared of being hurt again. The funniest thing is that the people who matter- Spock, and me, the crew, his little girl- we've all gotten under those quills a long time ago. And he know it, and I think…..I think it scares him pretty badly sometimes.

"So he was after you." He says after a minute. "Because _she_ was after you, or would be if she wasn't-pretty much a _sex slave_-"

"She chose to stay with him, Bones." I say. I know how pathetic it sounds even before his head snaps up and his eyes flare hotly. His entire body tenses, jaw tight, and his head and chin come up.

"Chains are not always physical, Jim, and you _know that_." He snaps. "She wanted to be loved. It was the only way he'd love her. She gave him-"

"Everything." I finish softly, pressing my hands against a desk. "He isn't even anyone I know, Bones. Just some-ensign. He wasn't stupid- he took on the apperance of someone who'd just….be overlooked, for the most part."

"What I want to know I how the hell he got on this ship." McCoy looks up at me. "I should have-Jim-"

"Bones, it's not your fault." I say. "_Starfleet_ didn't catch anything off about this guy, no one could expect you to."

I know instantly I stuck my foot in my mouth. His eyes flare again, but with cold this time, not heat, and his hand fists on the sheets.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"It means you have a lot on your plate." I sooth, wincing slightly as one of those quills finds it's way to my skin anyway, drawing blood. Leonard McCoy, the only porcipine able to invert his spines to get at anyone a little closer to flesh. "And over four hundered people to worry about, the same as me."

He softens a little, his offended bristling slowly fading away.

"What did Spock do with our attacker?"

"He's interrogating him in the brig." I say. "Spock and four security guards."

"You should get down there."

I can't right now. I don't want to say it, to _admit_ it, but I can't go down there now. "She kept you going," I say instead, "when you got shot."

He nods. "It's all I can imagine that-that _glitter _was." And it was glitter, there's no other real word for it. "She was…..supporting me, until you came. I don't know where she….went?"

I take a breath. "She's gone." Is all I say, and this time, I know it's true.

_______________________________________________________________________________________


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: Yes, this is the last chapter. No, there will not be an explination for the butterfly race, nor any dramatic, exciting actions scenes. This was meant to be short and sweet and I feel it's ended at a good place. **

**Thanks for sticking with me, all ya'll- you're awsome and I love ya. ^^  
**

It's another hour before Bones and I head out. It's another hour before I calm down enough, before Bones is steady enough, for us to go back to the brig. We move together, shoulder to shoulder, and though I try, I can't….feel her. At our backs, at our sides, I don't sense her. I miss it, the constant feeling of her, and that sort of surprises me. At the same time…..I don't suppose it does. But there _is_ Bones, at my side, and Spock, just a few steps away and suddenly closing the gap, and when he inclines his head with something that might have been his _not smile_, the sharp pain of loss eases.

"Get anything from him?"

"He has revealed his true form to us. I suppose he realized there was no sense in further continuing the charade." Spock says calmly, but I see the anger in his very-human eyes, in the tense set of his slender frame. "I do not know-nor can I even begin to pressume-what race they both might be."

"A beautiful one, that's for sure." McCoy, from my left. He's staring at the prisoner, unable to pull his eyes away. I realize I'm the only one who's seen her as she _is_- or was- and both McCoy and Spock had no idea what she _really_ looked like. Bones is studying the butterfly wings, the pale skin and cat-slit eyes and long, hair as fine as spider silk. Even _he_ is, as Bones says, just stunningly beautiful. But there is a coldness in his eyes she didn't share, something cruel and calculating. Something insane.

"Captian." He greets softly, in a low, purring growl. His voice sends chills up and down my spine. "I see you finally realize I wasn't lying."

"She's gone." I agree softly, crouching just outside the brig's invisible sheild. "She no longer had any reason to remain."

"Oh yes. You showed her _love_, and _affection_. Like a fairy tale prince." He laughs, the sound bitter. "Too bad her prince wasn't in time to save her from death."

I refuse to let him see how that crawls under my skin and makes me itch. There was a murder on my ship, a sadistic love triangle I wasn't even aware I was apart of- or maybe more like 'love octogon' in this case- and a murder. And until this moment I didn't know a thing about it.

Some leader I am. I snarl internally, fighting off the thoughts that plauge me- I can deal with them later- and rise again. "What are you? What was she?"

The smile turns cold. "Better,"He snarls, "then you."

Well. Apperantly we have not, in fact, meant _all_ the races in the galexy that look down on humans. "Maybe." I reply. "But still, apparently, not above falling in lust with one of _us_. Or murder."

His head jerks up, and he lunges forward, hitting the force field of the brig and rebounding. I jump, startled at the vicious attack. "You _humans_," He spits, "you contaminated her! Made her fall in love with you! All she wanted, all she ever talked about, was _James Kirk_ this and _Jim Kirk_ that!"

"I'm hardly surprised." Bones says archedly from my side. "Considering _you_ didn't want anything but the _human_ you made her look like yourself!"

A snarl, and he lunges again. When he field sparks and snaps dangerously, I grab McCoy's arm, pulling him back.

"Bones, enough." I growl. He's going to get through there. He's going to break through and if he does-if he does, we'll have a real problem on our hands.

"He does have a point, though, Captian." Spock says, as mildly as if disussing a point of intrest over a game of chess with me. "Our prisoner _did_ have a desire for a human female."

"You humans are soft and weak, but you are interesting." The man in the brig purrs out. "So delicate and deeply passonate. In the last, you are very like my own people. I had never seen a human, before _her_. I had to take her."

"But you couldn't. So you seduced a woman of your own race. And you talked her into pretending to be Lilisa for you. And because she _loved you_-" I break off, not trusting myself not to raise my voice. I feel sick, and my hands are fisted.

For the first time, I understand why Spock's unflappable calm bothers Bones. Right now, I want someone else to be as angry as I am. But he simply watches, and listens, and when he catches me leveling him with a hard stare-

-he looks away, and my irrational anger is gone. That isn't fair of me. Spock is Spock, and he's just as disgusted by this as Bones and I am. Just because he's not yelling or cursing or showing it physically doesn't mean anything and I should know him well enough to know that. I need to step back and calm down. I rein myself in hard and turn away from the prisoner.

"Make sure he stays put." I snarl at the security gaurds. "We'll take him to the nearest starbase and leave them to be their problem." I have no proof he killed anyone, but I do have the word of a few witnesses that he at least had assumed the form of a human ensign to sneak on board a federation starship and had attacked both doctor McCoy and Lilisa. It would be a headache, but I could get him arrested on those charges alone. Spock catches up to me as I turn to leave, my stride fast and angry but his legs longer.

"Jim-" He begins, but I hold up a hand and he stops, because he is Spock, not would have shoved my hand down and snarled something.

"Not now, Spock." I warn, hoping he can pick up on the danger in my voice. _Knowing_ he can. But his hand reaches out anyway- and how often does Spock voluntarily reach out to anyone?- and catches my arm, careful to avoid my skin but holding me in a tight grip anyway. He could break my arm one-handed, if he wanted, simply twist and snap it almost off. But he's not even going to leave a bruise; it doesn't even hurt. It's just firm, firm enough that I couldn't yank away easily. But I_ could_ yank away if I wanted, because that's how Spock is. It's why he's beta, not alpha, and he has no desire to be. It's the difference between him and I- well, one of a few.

"Captian," He picks up, and it feels odd that he uses the formal title while still holding me back. "It would do well for us to know more about this man and his race. People like this have never before been seen-"

"Spock," I remind, and now I _do_ pull away. Funny, that it's me pulling back from his touch instead of the other way around. "the man is an insane murderer. And _all_ of the races we end up meeting out here, save perhaps the Klingons, were usually 'never before seen'. Starfleet will handle it." _I can't. Well, I could, but I doubt very much you'd approve._

"And what of the girl?"

I stop, halfway to walking away again. "The girl is gone." I say softly, closing my eyes. I know it's completely irrational to think that I've let Edith die again, as that never was and never had been Edith Keeler, but the thought is there, fighting at the bit for control. Right behind it is the guilt of letting _anyone _on _my ship_ die without so much as me knowing. Of letting someone alien and evil creep onto her and never even knowing…..

Never even knowing a thing was wrong until I had it shoved in my face.

"Gone."

"Yes, Mr. Spock, just like that. She-" I stop. He doesn't need a detailed account. "We've got her kilelr in custody and we are currently in no danger. She's at rest. Or….I hope she is."

He looks at me consideringly for a moment. "Yes, sir." Is all his says, but his eyes, as always, say more then he ever will, and suddenly, as I feel Bones' hand on my shoulder and Spock simply brushes past gently, with his _not smile,_ I feel…..much better. Not okay, but better. I take a breath, and as I move back to the bridge, something gently, playfully, flirtatiously, brushes over my cheek .

I smile and keep walking.


End file.
